Cro. We are innocent; some storm did cast
Him shipwrackt on the shore, as you see wounded:
Nor durst we be Surgeons to such
Your Mother doth appoint for death.
Cla. Weak excuse; Where's pity?
Where's soft compassion? cruel, and ungrateful
Did providence offer to your charity
But one poor Subject to express it on,
And in't to shew our wants too; and could you
So carelessly neglect it?
Hip. For ought I know, he's living yet;
And may tempt your Mother, by giving him succor.
Cla. Ha, come near I charge ye.
So, bend his body softly; rub his temples;
Nay, that shall be my office: how the red
Steales into his pale lips! run and fetch the simples
With which my Mother heal'd my arme
When last I was wounded by the Bore.
Cro. Doe: but remember her to come after ye,
That she may behold her daughters charity.
Cla. Now he breathes; [Exit Hippolita.
The ayr passing through the Arabian groves
Yields not so sweet an odour: prethee taste it;
Taste it good Crocale; yet I envy thee so great a blessing;
'Tis not sin to touch these Rubies, is it?
Jul. Not, I think.
Cla. Or thus to live Camelion like?
I could resign my essence to live ever thus.
O welcome; raise him up Gently. Some soft hand
Bound up these wounds; a womans hair. What fury
For which my ignorance does not know a name,
Is crept into my bosome? But I forget.
Enter Hippolita.